


Blind and Barefoot

by EmilyFairy



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: Fluff, Happy, Kissing, M/M, UK Whose Line
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-12
Updated: 2006-05-12
Packaged: 2019-04-30 22:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14506719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilyFairy/pseuds/EmilyFairy
Summary: Ryan breaks Greg's glasses, and Greg has to trust in Ryan to get him safely home.





	Blind and Barefoot

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Clay, who somehow convinced me to try my hand at a "fluffy" Ryan/Greg fic... And this was the closest I could get! This is set during the UK series run -- Around 1993-1994.

I'll never let him forget the day he broke my glasses. 

I took them off to read the _London Times_ , like I do after every taping to help me relax. It's like part of the routine, and I'm one of those guys who needs the routine. I settle back onto the couch in my dressing room, place my glasses next to me, loosen my tie, pick up the paper, and smoke a few cigarettes. Does wonders for my outlook, let me tell you. 

When Ryan stalks into my dressing room, demanding a cigarette, I don't even look up from the article I'm reading. It's just another routine, something we've fallen into at some point during the all the time we've been working together. He sits next to me, hands shaking, green eyes bright with need, and I hold out the lighter, barely an inch in front of me, because I want him to lean in, I want to feel his long, slim body stretch across my lap and invade me. He shifts closer, moving towards the flame, cigarette dangling between his lips as he meets my eyes, and then I hear the crunch of glass underneath him. 

He jumps up. "What the hell?" 

"My glasses," I say. "You broke my glasses." And I don't know whether to laugh or scream. 

"Shit. I'm really sorry," he says. "Can you see without them?"

I roll my eyes, because what kind of dumb question is that? Does he think they're just _props_ for god's sake? "Yeah, I just wear them for the hell of it," I answer in the direction of the Ryan-shaped blob standing in front of me. I can see well enough for reading the paper, but anything more than a foot away is like a blurry watercolor painting. 

"Well, don't you have another pair? Like, a back-up?" And I can't believe it, but Ryan actually sounds _concerned_ about me. 

I snort. "Yeah. In my room. At the motel." 

And the next thing I know he's taking my arm and tugging me up off the couch. I almost stumble, and he steadies me, linking our arms together as we make our way out of the dressing room. For a moment I want to pull away from him, tell him to fuck off, I'll find my own way, but I can't see a damn thing, and my head's starting to ache, and oh hell. I think I'm just going to have to trust him, because I can't do this myself. And I let go, relaxing against his side, allowing him to lead me just this once. 

I think we're in the hallway now, and then he pushes at a set of doors and I feel the sun heating my face. I smell smog mixed with asphalt, and I hear cars zooming through the streets. He rests one hand on the small of my back, guiding me down the street. 

For a second I want to ask him what the hell he thinks he's doing. I want to know why he's not hailing a cab, why he's continuing to steer me along the sidewalk like he's the world's biggest Labrador Retriever. But his hand leaves a warm imprint on my spine, and he's practically breathing in my ear, and damn do I want him more than ever. And I think to myself that maybe the taxi's safer, maybe it's easier, but I don't want him to stop touching me. 

So we walk, and he doesn't say anything, because he's concentrating on making it through the streets without killing both of us. And I'm just blinking into the haze, thinking to myself how much I need a cigarette right about now. The motel's about ten blocks from the studio, but there's a park on the corner that's a shortcut, and I think he's leading me in that direction. 

The ground underneath my feet turns green, and it feels softer, springy. Grass. I'm a city boy through and through, but one of my best-kept secrets is that when no one's around to see me I love to take off my perfectly polished shoes, tie my jacket around my waist, and step through the grass like a little boy instead of a thirty-something year old man. This isn't one of those times, unfortunately. I'm already humiliated enough, having to rely on Ryan like this. He can't find out, and he won't. Because it's easier that way, if he doesn't know anything about me except my fondness for bars and drunken conversation. 

"You know," he says, turning to look at me, cupping my waist with those long, beautiful fingers while we walk down what I think is some kind of rocky path, judging from the crunching beneath our feet. "You have nice eyes." 

I blink at him, wondering who this guy is and what the hell he's done with Ryan. "W-What?" I stammer, because I never thought _Ryan_ would say something like that, that he would notice... 

"Without your glasses," he says, "you have nice eyes. I never noticed before." 

"I..." And fuck it all if he isn't getting under my skin, worming his way inside me, warming my cold little heart. I clear my throat, forcing the walls back up, even though it's ridiculous, 'cause I can't see, and he's my only hope for getting back safely. "So, what? You want me to get contacts or something? Show off my 'nice eyes' to the world?" I mock him, because that's just what I do. 

He laughs, and I feel it, rumbling in his chest, which is pressing against my back all snug and inviting. "No," he says. "No contacts. Don't want anyone else to know. Our secret, you know?" 

And before I can answer, his hand covers mine, tangling together between us, and then he's pushing me back against something that I think might be a tree, and I see his face, clear in front of me because he's so close, and he's staring at me like he's never seen me before. And maybe he hasn't, not like this. 

"Greg," he breathes, and oh my god, he's tracing my face, and part of me wants to spin away, bring him down on his knees, and just fuck him senseless here in the park, glasses or no glasses, but he's _smiling_ , and his hands are gentler than I thought they would be, and oh god, he makes me feel like a lovesick teenager but I have to fight it...

I don't want to fight it, not when he's pressed against me like this, the way I've fantasized about him for years now, late at night, dick aching hard in my hand while the tv flickers in the dark. And it's weird, because all I can see is him. Everything behind him is a meaningless swirl of color, and Ryan's in front of me, golden in the sun, ducking his head towards mine, and a gasp escapes my lips. 

And I close my eyes, giving in for just a moment, allowing him to kiss me. He tastes like tobacco, the way I always knew he would, and he keeps shoving me back against the tree, but his hands stroke my hair, my cheeks, my chin. And I brush my fingers across his jaw, lighter than I've ever touched anyone since my first broken heart who the hell knows how many years ago. 

I wonder if he would join me in the grass, if I asked. Would he take my hand, would he lead me through the green? Or would he leave me, like all the others eventually do when they see who I am and who I'm not? 

He kisses me one last time, tender and brief, laughing eyes opening into mine, and my heart pounds, because he thinks I have nice eyes, because he's holding me, because I'm shining all over like a freshly minted penny. 

And I kick off my shoes.


End file.
